


change of pace

by loganes



Series: the space between blue lines [4]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Colorado Avalanche, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 13:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7053139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loganes/pseuds/loganes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't need to be at the rink for a few hours, which leaves him plenty of time to avoid seeing his family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	change of pace

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ellie for the beta!

Okay, so the Avs are actually playing really well. Dylan knows he's not the only reason, since the Avs picked up a couple of solid d-men over the off season, brought up some promising forwards and that's all paying off, but he's also leading the league in points for rookies and it's hard not to feel good about it. They're coming off a seven game winning streak when they get to Minnesota and the media is already mentioning the Calder every so often, so it’s almost impossible to let a bad mood set in immediately, even though he’s home.

He turns his phone on as soon as they land, shuffling out after Rowe and Jordy. They don't need to be at the rink for a few hours, which leaves him plenty of time to avoid seeing his family. Which maybe isn't entirely fair, but whatever. It’s been a nice break, the past few years, and he certainly does not mind the independence.

His phone buzzes in his hand a few times, texts coming through in rapid succession, but he thumbs over them until he finds one from his brother.

 _Let's do lunch since you're in town_ , it says.

Dylan bites his lip, startling when Proulx nudges him forward out of the plane’s exit.

 _Just you and me?_ he sends, after a couple seconds’ deliberation, narrowly avoids sending 'I'm surprised you knew I had a game'.

He puts his phone in his pocket without waiting for a response, not ready to deal with that until he at least has had a shower and maybe a quick nap at the hotel.

"Heeeey, why do you look like someone kicked your dog?" someone says in his ear, and Dylan glances up from his feet. He shakes his head, ignoring the inquisitive look on Nielsen's face, and looks back ahead. Most of the guys get along well with their families, talk about summer vacations on the Cape or sometimes what their siblings are up to, who got the short end of the stick driving to practices back in the day, so Dylan is more than aware of what he’s not adding to the conversation. It’s not even that he’s avoiding it, per se, but it’s always awkward when it comes up: _Yeah, my family doesn’t really care about hockey. No, they don’t try to come to games. They’re both doctors, they don’t have the time._ The explanation sucks. All of it sucks. He stopped complaining about it a long time ago though, knows he’s still lucky as hell for what he’s got, even if he’s been doing it on his own the whole time.

"Tired, Zach,” he says shortly. It sounds like a lie to his own ears so there's no chance Nielsen doesn't see through it, but at least it gets the point across that he doesn't want to talk, and no one tries to interact with him again until they get to the hotel.

He gets to the room before McNamara does and he’s used to the routine at this point, so he leaves the far bed open, shucking his bags onto the one closest to the door. They fought about that at first, because they’ve fought about almost everything, but in the scheme of things Dylan honestly does not give a shit where he sleeps so long as he sleeps well, so that was that. By the time McNamara comes in, noisily slamming his bag against the door, Dylan’s sprawled across his bed on his stomach, scrolling through Twitter instead of his text messages.

“Yo,” McNamara says, dropping his bag somewhere Dylan can’t see. He hovers for a second—it feels like he’s hovering, anyway, Dylan isn’t looking up from his phone—and then says, “You’re from Minnesota, right? Anything fun to do here?”

The question inexplicably annoys him. Ever since he helped McNamara’s drunk ass out in Dallas, McNamara’s been going out _more_ , trusting Dylan to handle his shit, which is really not at all what Dylan signed on for. Nothing else has happened, no more one-in-the-morning drunk calls, but still. He’s vaguely pissed off that martyring himself for one night has reinforced McNamara’s bad habits, and the only reason he hasn’t said anything is because McNamara is playing— pretty great, honestly. That, and there’s a selfish part of him that’s pleased McNamara trusts him enough to keep it up.

“No,” he snaps, frowning at his phone. Saffrey, one of the other rookies who’s close behind Dylan in points, hasn’t followed him back on Twitter.

“Whoa, what’s up your ass?”

“As if that’s any of your fucking business,” Dylan mutters, dropping his head until his face is half buried in the fluff of the comforter. He knows he’s being a moody prick, but damn if he doesn’t want to take it out on McNamara, considering the guy had no issue doing the same to him for the first month of knowing him.

McNamara snorts. “Sorry I asked,” he says.

Dylan is about to say something entirely unnecessary when his phone buzzes with a second, insistent text from his brother. _Fine_ , he thinks, and opens the conversation.

_Mom and Dad can’t make it. I booked us for 1:30 at Meritage._

_Do you need me to pick you up?_

Typical Danny, going out of his way to be a fucking douche. He didn’t even ask if the time worked with Dylan’s schedule, but then he wouldn’t, has never been one to make an effort to accommodate other people. He groans and rolls over onto his back, letting his phone fall onto his stomach, and he looks over to where McNamara’s standing shirtless, water bottle in hand.

“Want to come to lunch in an hour?” Dylan asks recklessly before he can stop himself. Danny would never expect it, and on top of that would be disgruntled to have to ask for a third seat, so Dylan considers that a win if McNamara agrees.

McNamara raises his eyebrows. “Uh. Are you joking?”

Dylan shrugs, forcing it to look casual. “No. It’s a nice restaurant. My brother’s paying,” he grins, all teeth. His ‘psycho grin,’ an ex-girlfriend once told him, but fuck her anyway, because she dumped him the night he scored his first hat trick for the Knights, which has never made any sense to him.

McNamara is silent long enough that Dylan sits up and stares at him pointedly. He’s biting his lip, arms crossed over his chest while he contemplates, and Dylan wants to do something stupid, like straighten his hat where it’s sitting askew on his head. Jesus.

“O-kaaay,” McNamara says then, drawing the word out like he’s uncertain, which would be fair, since they’re not friends and Dylan just asked him along on a family lunch. The look he’s giving Dylan is almost understanding, like he knows Dylan only invited him to spite his brother.

Dylan spreads his palms out on his thighs; they’re a little sweaty, and he presses the tips of his fingers into his muscles. “Yeah? Alright. I just gotta shower,” he says, silently hoping McNamara doesn’t change his mind. For all that this is probably going to be awkward at best, he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to be alone with his brother, can’t get into the same topics of conversation now that there’s a third person. _Yeah, you can pick us up. Bringing a buddy_ , he sends to Danny along with the name of their hotel, then plugs his phone in to charge. McNamara’s fumbling around in his bag, ostensibly looking for something that’s not a teeshirt or basketball shorts, so Dylan pushes himself off the bed and heads into the bathroom.

He goes over all the things they _can_ talk about while he showers, and there really isn’t much without tiptoeing around what Danny actually is going to want to say, but whatever, McNamara can step up, since there’s plenty they haven’t talked about yet, like. Dylan could fill a _book_ with everything they haven’t talked about. He’s vocal enough in the locker room, practically outgoing around Rowe and Holm when they’re out as a team, so maybe now that it’s not just Dylan he’ll make real conversation. Eventually he turns off the water, knows he needs to get a move on, and when he comes out of the bathroom McNamara is sitting on the couch in a button-down and khakis, looking—pretty damn good, Dylan can admit. He forces himself not to stare unnecessarily and changes quickly, unlocking his phone to make sure Danny actually confirmed that he’d pick them up.

At 1:10 exactly, Danny texts him, _I’m outside_. They'll probably be early to the restaurant, but Danny is nothing if not prompt, so Dylan is supremely unsurprised.

He exhales loudly, can't help it, which gets him a look from McNamara that he ignores.

“You gonna be good, man?” McNamara says, snide, and Dylan thinks, _this is such a bad idea._

“Yup. Let’s go,” he says, shoving his phone into his pocket and heading out the door without checking to see if McNamara is following.

 

*

 

The drive over is fine, less than ten minutes, and they get by with small talk about the weather, of all the fucking cliche things to discuss. Dylan realizes, belatedly, that he can’t just introduce McNamara by his last name, and it’s strange referring to him as Ryan for, like, the first time ever. If Danny notices him stumble over the introduction he doesn’t say anything, at least, so Dylan is lulled into a false sense of security by the time they get to the restaurant.

“So,” Danny says, once they’re seated, “how’s hockey?” He glances at McNamara as he says it, this unapologetic disdainful look that makes Dylan want to wince.

“It’s…good,” Dylan says. “How’s surgery?” Because, honestly, if that’s how this is going to go, then Dylan is happy to play the game.

“Phenomenal,” Danny says, flashing a smile.

Dylan cracks the knuckle of his right thumb, a habit that always annoyed Danny. “Isn’t it always?” he asks, just this side of rude. God, he’s already exhausted, and they don’t even play until seven.

Danny shrugs a shoulder, a smooth movement that manages to look both contrived and pretentious to Dylan, but that’s only because Dylan knows better; he wonders, absently, how his brother looks to McNamara, if he sees any arrogance or if Danny’s just a charming, attractive doctor with straight teeth and a nice smile.

“Generally,” Danny says. “A lot of late hours recently, though. I’m sure it shows. Annie’s always complaining about the bags under my eyes. You look like you could use some sleep yourself, actually. Do you get many breaks between games?”

It’s suddenly way more uncomfortable to have McNamara here than Dylan is prepared to deal with. He doesn’t really know what he was expecting to begin with; Danny hadn’t even called him out on bringing someone, and now McNamara is going to know the way his family is about hockey, which means probably the whole team will know, and it’s just—he should have planned this better, and he’s mentally kicking himself, doesn’t even know what to say because part of him had hoped maybe Danny wouldn’t still be this purposefully oblivious about what goes on in his life.

“What, you don’t watch?”

Dylan whips his head up from where he’s been staring at his plate. “M— Ryan,” he starts, not really sure where he’s going with it, but he sure as hell doesn’t need McNamara fighting his battles.

Danny’s eyes are minutely narrowed, and he cocks his head at Dylan, as if to say, _Who the hell is this and why is he here?_ “No,” Danny says, and he actually sounds regretful, which is absurd, that he can lie even in _tone_. “I’m not really a television person.”

McNamara’s mouth does something funny. Dylan can’t look away. The waiter hasn’t come back to take their orders yet, and he would put money on Danny complaining about the service later.

“Well, it’s not really television,” McNamara says, “and Dylan is playing pretty fucking great. I’m assuming you’re coming to the game later? Since then you won’t have to watch it on television?”

Dylan does wince this time, because, yeah, he already knows McNamara is kind of a dick, but now it’s directed at his brother, a total fucking stranger to McNamara, and he kind of wants to leave this lunch with what little of a relationship he has with his brother still intact. Some distant part of him is selfishly pleased that McNamara is being a dick on his behalf instead of being a dick to him, which is, quite frankly, crazy, but then he also wishes none of this was happening, so it’s hard to focus on the silver lining.

Danny’s face is an amazing combination of condescending and polite, and he presses his lips together in a way that makes Dylan think he’s refraining from correcting McNamara’s grammar. “You sound like you’re from Boston,” Danny says after a moment, because he loves to change the subject when it suits him. Dylan can hear that it’s an insult, somehow, though he doesn’t really get why, has only ever heard McNamara’s accent and thought _hockey_ , this strange association from watching Miracle too many times growing up. It’s hard to remember that it’s not exactly Danny’s fault, his aversion to hockey, but the fact that he’s always such a fucking asshole about his own job, about what Dylan’s missing out on—that’s all on him, so Dylan can’t feel bad, let alone guilty, for wishing his family cared a little bit more.

“Born and raised,” McNamara answers, and he’s about to say more when the waiter finally comes back, thank god. They order their food—steak for Dylan, steak for McNamara, some weird fish-and-quinoa thing for Danny—and then it’s awkward, for a minute, while Dylan tries to think of something to say that’s not hockey-related. It’s always jarring to be around his family again, because most of his life has to do with hockey, and it’s so difficult to let all of that go just to make conversation. Danny breaks the silence, asking McNamara a question about the weather in Massachusetts, and Dylan lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It’s still better to have McNamara here than not, he realizes, a distraction for Danny so he doesn’t have to skirt around the topic of Dylan’s career as much as he otherwise would.

He doesn’t quite trust McNamara not to bring up their game again, but McNamara miraculously sticks to answering Danny’s questions through the rest of the meal, even asks a few of his own about Danny’s work, and Dylan is almost more grateful for McNamara’s existence now than he was after that powerplay goal against Buffalo.

To his credit, Danny does actually offer to pay at the end, and Dylan lets him. He might have more money than he knows what to do with right now, even on an entry level contract, but it feels wrong to spend his _hockey money_ on someone who no longer appreciates hockey, so whatever, it’s not like Danny doesn’t make six figures as well.

When they get back to the hotel, Danny puts the car in park and gets out, presumably to give Dylan a hug, some show of family that won’t really connect right, but he shakes McNamara’s hand instead and then waits for McNamara to leave. McNamara shoots Dylan a weird look, hesitating between the hotel’s sliding doors, but Dylan waves him off. It’s different, feeling like McNamara’s got his back, and he doesn’t really want to test it at this point, so he waits until McNamara’s out of sight before turning back to Danny.

“Thanks for lunch,” he says, because it’s the polite thing to do.

“Anytime,” Danny says. He actually sounds serious. “Listen, Dylan, I’m sorry about tonight. That I can’t co—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dylan interrupts. There’s always some excuse, one thing or another that comes up. At least, with Danny, there’s a reason behind it, whereas he knows his parents just don’t care. He forces his lips into something that resembles a smile and nudges Danny’s shoulder with his own, leaning down a little to make it work. “Tell Annie I say hi, okay?”

“Of course,” Danny says automatically. “Next time you’re in town, you could come by the apartment,” he adds. It’s less than a fifteen minute drive to their parents’ house, and Dylan still doesn’t understand how Danny can stand to live so close to home.

“Mm. Might not be for a while, but sure, if it works,” Dylan says, glancing back toward the hotel. “Look, I need to get going, there’s stuff I gotta do before the game.” It’s not an outright lie—he does still need to nap—but he feels a little bad regardless.

“Oh, sure,” Danny nods. “I’ll let you go. It was good to see you, Dyl. You…look good.”

They don’t hug goodbye; Danny just squeezes his shoulder, same as when they were kids, only now Dylan’s the taller one and it doesn’t quite feel right anymore.

 

*

 

McNamara is in bed when Dylan gets back to the room, but he’s not even pretending to nap, and he puts his phone away after Dylan closes the door behind him.

“Pearson,” he says. “That was kind of fucked up.”

Leave it to McNamara to hit Dylan with the blunt truth when all he wants is to bury his head in his pillows. “Sorry,” Dylan mutters, stumbling a little while he toes his shoes off.

“No, that’s not what— like, is it always like that? With your family?”

Dylan blinks and sits down on the edge of his bed, startled by McNamara’s quiet tone. “Pretty much,” he says, licking his lips. He drank three glasses of water at lunch and his mouth is still fucking dry, always gets that way when he’s stressed. “I mean, Danny’s not that bad. He’s not,” he says again, when McNamara scoffs. “He blew out his knee back in the day, and it was like, the worst thing that could’ve happened. So. He’s kind of bitter that I play.” It’s not much of an explanation, but it’s more personal information than he’s ever given McNamara, so he figures it’s enough.

McNamara exhales sharply, and Dylan’s eyes get stuck on his face, all the expressions it goes through.

“Fuck, that blows. But that’s, he’s got some issues, if he’s this much of an asshole about it. No offense,” McNamara says.

“Yeah, I’m fucking well aware,” Dylan says. He runs his fingers along the edge of the quilt, abruptly feeling way too drained to be talking about this with McNamara, of all people. “Can we—could you, like, not say anything? To the team,” he clarifies, dropping his eyes away from McNamara’s face. It’s always been embarrassing to him, to be the kid whose parents aren’t in the stands, ever, and he doesn’t want it to be common knowledge, doesn’t want anyone’s pity. At least McNamara’s not looking at him any different.

Dylan’s prepared to fight about it, because that’s just what they do, but then McNamara says, “Wasn’t gonna,” as if it’s a given, as if he hasn’t tried to make Dylan’s life difficult in every way since training camp.

He’ll take what he can get, though, so he just nods, accepts what McNamara’s offering, and finds he’s pretty okay with the change of pace.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://larraza.tumblr.com).


End file.
